Chapter 3 – Nicola
I wake to pale light filtering through a frost-etched window and the muffled quiet of deep snow.
For a moment, I don't remember where I am. The bed is too big, the blankets too heavy, the silence too complete. Then it comes rushing back—the storm, the crash, stumbling through snow that tried to bury me, and the man who opened his door.
I sit up slowly, pushing tangled hair out of my face. My scraped palm twinges under the gauze he wrapped last night. The borrowed flannel shirt has twisted around my body, bunching at my hips. I'm warm, though. Safer than I've been in months. Maybe longer.
I swing my legs out of bed, feet touching cold wood floors, and pad to the window. The storm has eased, but the world beyond the glass looks untouched, prehistoric. No roads visible. No signs of civilization. Just white and trees and the distant shadow of mountains disappearing into low clouds.
We're completely alone out here.
I hear him before I see him. Heavy footsteps crossing the main room, the creak of floorboards under weight, the solid thunk of a log being added to the fire. Then the smell of rich dark coffee hits.
I should get dressed. Find my own clothes, dried by the fire overnight maybe, reclaim some illusion of independence. But his thermal shirt is soft against my skin, and the flannel smells like him.
I leave it on and venture into the hallway.
He's in the kitchen area, broad back to me, pouring coffee into two mugs.
He's wearing a dark shirt that stretches across his shoulders, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, revealing those scarred forearms I noticed last night.
His hair is damp, like he's already been outside. Snow dusts his boots by the door.
He must hear me, because he glances over his shoulder.
"Morning," he says, voice still rough with sleep. He turns back to the coffee, adding something from a small jar. "How'd you sleep?"
"Better than I expected." I hover at the edge of the kitchen, uncertain. The cabin feels smaller in daylight, more intimate.
He holds out one of the mugs. I step forward to take it, and our fingers brush. The contact is brief, accidental, but it jolts through me like static. I pull back too quickly, nearly sloshing coffee over the rim.
His mouth twitches. Almost a smile. "Careful."
I wrap both hands around the mug and retreat to the table, sitting in the same chair I sat on last night.
Safe distance. He doesn't follow immediately, just leans against the counter with his own coffee, watching me with that steady, unreadable intensity that makes me feel seen in a way I'm not used to.
"Storm's eased," he says after a moment. "But the roads'll be buried for days. Maybe a week, depending on when they get plows up this far."
A week. The words settle over me with unexpected weight. A week trapped here with him, alone, cut off from everything.
I should be terrified. I am terrified—of being found, of what comes next, of the fact that I'm sitting in a stranger's cabin wearing his clothes and feeling safer than I did in my own apartment.
"Okay," I hear myself say. Like it's simple. Like I have a choice.
He nods, takes a long drink of coffee, then straightens. "You eat eggs?"
"I—yes?"
"Good." He moves to the stove, pulling out a cast iron pan that looks older than me. "You need food. Real food, not just stew."
I watch him crack eggs one-handed into a bowl, his movements efficient and confident.
There's something almost hypnotic about the way he takes up space without apology, the controlled strength in every gesture.
He's so big, all broad shoulders and thick muscle, and yet his hands are soft with the eggs, gentle in a way that doesn't match the violence written into his scarred knuckles.
"Can I help?" The offer escapes before I can think better of it.
He glances at me, something warming in his expression. "You know how to make toast without burning it?"
"Probably."
"Then yeah. Bread's in the box by the sink."
I set down my coffee and join him in the narrow kitchen. My hip brushes his thigh as I reach for the bread box, and I feel him go still beside me. Not pulling away. Just... aware.
The air between us feels charged, too close, crackling with something I'm afraid to examine.
I focus on the bread, slicing it thicker than I mean to because my hands aren't quite steady.
The toaster is old-fashioned, the kind you set over the stove burner.
I arrange the slices and try not to think about how warm the space is, how I can feel the heat radiating off his body even though we're not touching.
"You run a lot?" His voice is low, conversational, but I catch the real question underneath. Have you had to run before?
"No." I watch the bread start to brown, turning it slowly. "First time. I just—I couldn't do it. Couldn't walk down that aisle and promise forever to someone who made me feel like I was drowning."
He's quiet for a moment, whisking eggs with more force than necessary. "Does he make you feel that way often?"
"Every day." The admission comes easier than it should. Maybe because he's not looking at me, or because something about the domestic rhythm of cooking breakfast makes confession feel less dangerous. "He had opinions about everything. What I wore, how I styled my hair, when I spoke, what I ate."
I hear the whisk stop. Feel his attention sharpen.
"He said it was because he cared," I continue, unable to stop now that I've started.
“That he wanted what was ‘best’ for me. But it never felt like care. It felt like he was trimming me down to fit some box he’d already built.
Someone smaller. Quieter. Easy to control.
" I swallow. "And when I pushed back, even a little, he’d… change. "
The silence that follows is heavy. I risk a glance at Jason and immediately wish I hadn't. His jaw is locked, the muscle jumping beneath his beard. Then he breathes out slowly and the tension eases slightly.
"He was wrong," Jason says, voice flat and certain. "About all of it."
The words punch through my chest. Simple. Absolute. No room for argument.
I turn back to the toast, blinking hard. "You don't even know me."
"Know enough." He plates the eggs, dividing them evenly. "Know you're brave enough to run. Smart enough to survive. And he was a damn fool if he couldn't see what was right in front of him."
Heat floods my face. I busy myself with the toast, transferring it to the plates he's set out, but I can feel his gaze on me.
We eat at the table, and it should feel awkward—this forced domesticity with a man I met less than twelve hours ago—but it doesn't.
It feels... easy. He doesn't fill the silence with empty chatter, and I don't feel pressured to perform or entertain. We just exist together in the quiet morning light, eating breakfast while snow drifts past the windows.
Somehow I manage to burn my tongue on too-hot coffee and hiss.
"Slow down," he says, and there's dry amusement threading through his tone. "It's not going anywhere."
"Force of habit." I set the mug down, embarrassed. "I'm used to rushing through meals. He didn't like it when I lingered."
Jason's fork stops halfway to his mouth. He sets it down with deliberate care. "Say his name."
I blink. "What?"
"His name." Jason leans back in his chair, arms crossed, expression unreadable. "You keep calling him 'he' like he's a ghost. He's not. He's just a man. And men break."
The underlying threat in those words should scare me. Instead, something hot and fierce unfurls in my chest.
"Daniel," I say. Testing the shape of it. "Daniel Hill."
Jason nods once. "Good. Now I know what to call him if he shows up."
If. Not when. Like Jason's already decided the outcome of that encounter, and Daniel doesn't stand a chance.
"He won't," I say, but my voice wavers. "He doesn't even know I'm here. No one does."
"Doesn't matter." Jason's gaze locks onto mine, dark and absolute. "He comes looking, he won't get past me. You understand?"
I nod, throat tight. I believe him. That's the terrifying part, I believe him completely.
He holds my gaze a moment longer, then returns to his breakfast like the conversation didn't just rearrange something fundamental inside me.
I finish eating in a daze, hyper-aware of every small movement. The way his shoulders shift when he reaches for his coffee. The scarred knuckles curled around his fork. The controlled strength in the line of his jaw.
He's dangerous. I knew that the second I saw him. But watching him now—patient and deliberate—I'm starting to understand that the danger isn't aimed at me. It's aimed at anything that might threaten me.
After breakfast, I insist on washing dishes. He lets me, leaning against the counter with fresh coffee, watching. I'm extremely conscious of his attention—the weight of it, the way it never wavers. Like I'm the most important thing in this cabin, this mountain, this entire snowbound world.
I'm rinsing the last plate when my foot slips on a damp patch of floor. I yelp, start to fall—
And suddenly his hands are on my waist, spanning it completely, steadying me before I even register the movement. He's close now, so close I can feel the heat radiating off his body, smell the coffee and woodsmoke and him.
"Careful," he murmurs, voice low and rough.
I freeze, plate forgotten, every nerve ending alive with his touch. His hands are huge, firm, and gentle. I can feel the leashed power in them.
My breath catches. I'm suddenly, vividly aware of my body—the way the thermal shirt clings to my curves, how soft I must feel under his palms, the way my heart is thundering so loud he must be able to hear it.
"I'm okay," I manage. My voice comes out too breathy. "You can—"
He releases me slowly, like he's reluctant to let go. Steps back just enough to give me space, but his gaze stays locked on mine.
"You keep doing that," he says quietly.
"Doing what?"
"Apologizing. For taking up space. For existing." His jaw tightens. "You don't have to. Not here."
I turn away before he can see the sudden sting of tears, busying myself with drying the plate even though my hands are shaking.
Behind me, he's quiet. Giving me time. Giving me space to break down or pull myself together, whichever I need.
I choose the latter. Barely.
"Thank you," I whisper.
"For what?"
"For..." I gesture helplessly at the cabin, the breakfast, the borrowed clothes. Him. "All of it."
He's quiet for a long moment. Then: "You don't need to thank me for basic decency."
"Maybe not. But I'm going to anyway."
I hear him move, feel him stop just behind me. Close enough that I could lean back and touch him. Close enough that I'm hyperaware of the space between us, charged and fragile and impossible to ignore.
I turn to face him, the dish towel still clutched in my hands. "Jason?"
"Yeah?"
"My name isn't Emily." The words come out in a rush. "I lied. When you asked. I was scared and I just—I said the first thing that came to mind."
He's quiet for a moment, dark eyes searching mine. "What is it?"
"Nicola." I swallow. "Nicola Jackson."
"Nicola," he repeats, testing the shape of it. His voice makes it sound different somehow. Better.
"I wanted you to know," I say quietly. "The real one. Because you've been honest with me. And I wanted to give that back."
The corner of his mouth lifts. Almost a smile.
"Nicola suits you better than Emily."